I waved discreetly to Lisa Pizza and headed for the front door while keeping my eye on the woman with the caterer. Her skin was fabulous and her silky pageboy, a ginger spice brown, was cut to perfection. I nearly knocked over the cream-colored raincoat thrown regally across the chair next to her, but she took no notice. The label on the raincoat read Max Mara and I wondered what it must be like to schlep off to Weight Watchers on Gilman Street wearing a ten million dollar raincoat. It was a fact that I’d be wearing the same old Gore-Tex I’d had for twenty years when I reported for duty the following Tuesday.
I closed the door behind me as quietly as possible taking a good long look back at this foolish, rich woman who looked like she had an inner tube around her waist and whose mouth and hands kept flapping in unison. She sure was piss elegant, as Andy would say, kind of like a Sonya Sterling on steroids. It appeared to be my unlucky lot in life to find these women at every turn, even in wacky-doodles Berkeley where the People’s Movement appeared to be running out of steam.